PART ONE

1

THOUGH men in their hundreds of thousands had tried their hardest to disfigure that little corner of the earth where they had crowded themselves together, paving the ground with stones so that nothing could grow, weeding out every blade of vegetation, filling the air with the fumes of coal and gas, cutting down the trees and driving away every beast and every bird – spring, however, was still spring, even in the town. The sun shone warm, the grass, wherever it had not been scraped away, revived and showed green not only on the narrow strips of lawn on the boulevards but between the paving-stones as well, and the birches, the poplars and the wild cherry-trees were unfolding their sticky, fragrant leaves, and the swelling buds were bursting on the lime-trees; the jackdaws, the sparrows and the pigeons were cheerfully getting their nests ready for the spring, and the flies, warmed by the sunshine, buzzed gaily along the walls. All were happy – plants, birds, insects and children. But grown-up people – adult men and women – never left off cheating and tormenting themselves and one another. It was not this spring morning which they considered sacred and important, not the beauty of God’s world, given to all creatures to enjoy – a beauty which inclines the heart to peace, to harmony and to love. No, what they considered sacred and important were their own devices for wielding power over each other.

Thus, in the office of the provincial prison, what they regarded as sacred and important was not the fact that the grace and gladness of spring had been given to every animal and human creature, but the fact that a numbered document, bearing a seal and a superscription, had been received on the previous day, ordering that on this, the 28th day of April, at nine o’clock in the morning three prisoners at present detained in the prison, two women and one man, should be brought to the court-house. One of these women, as the most important prisoner, was to have a special escort. So now, in conformity with this order, on the 28th day of April, at eight o’clock in the morning, the head warder entered the dark, foul-smelling corridor of the women’s section of the prison. He was followed by a haggard-looking female with curly grey hair, wearing a jacket with braided sleeves and a belt edged with blue piping. She was the prison matron.

‘It is Maslova you want?’ she inquired, as she and the warder on duty went towards the door of one of the cells that led from the corridor.

The warder, rattling his iron keys, turned the lock and, opening the door of the cell, which emitted a whiff of air still more offensive than that in the corridor, shouted:

‘Maslova to the court-house!’ and closed the door again while he waited.

The fresh, bracing air of the fields had even penetrated into the prison yard, wafted to the city by the wind. But in the corridor the air was heavy with the germs of typhoid and the smell of sewage, tar and putrefaction, which instantly made everyone who came in feel depressed and melancholy. Though she was used to the bad air the prison matron, who had just come in from the yard, was affected by it. The moment she entered the corridor she felt languid and wanted to go to sleep.

A commotion could be heard inside the cell: there were women’s voices and the sound of bare feet on the floor.

‘Now then, Maslova, hurry up there, I tell you!’ shouted the head warder through the cell door.

A couple of minutes later a short full-bosomed young woman in a grey cloak over a white jacket and skirt came briskly out of the door, swung round and stood beside him. She was wearing calico stockings and prison shoes, and round her head she had tied a white kerchief, from beneath which a few ringlets of curling black hair had with evident intent been allowed to escape. Her face was pale with the pallor peculiar to people who have been shut in for a long time and which puts one in mind of the shoots which sprout from potatoes kept in a cellar. Her small broad hands and as much of the plump neck as could be seen beneath the big collar of her prison cloak were the same colour. Her sparkling jet-black eyes, though they were somewhat puffy and one of them had a slight cast, were very lively and offered a striking contrast to the dull pallor of her face. She held herself absolutely erect, her full bosom well forward. Emerging into the corridor, head thrown back a little, she looked the warder straight in the eye and stood ready to obey his orders, whatever they might be. The warder was just about to lock the door of the cell when a wrinkled old woman with straight grey hair thrust out a pale austere face. She started to say something to Maslova, but the warder slammed the door on her and the head disappeared. Inside the cell a woman roared with laughter. Maslova smiled too, and turned towards the little barred window in the cell door. The old woman on the other side clung to the opening and said in a hoarse voice:

‘Mind now, don’t say a word more than you need, stick to your story and stay mum.’

‘If only they would settle it one way or the other, it couldn’t be worse than it is now,’ said Maslova, with a shake of her head.

‘Of course they’ll settle it, and in one way, not the other,’ said the head warder, with the self-assured wit of a superior. ‘After me, quick march!’

The old woman’s eye vanished from the opening, and Maslova advanced into the middle of the corridor and with rapid mincing steps followed the head warder. They went down a stone staircase, passed the still fouler and noisier cells in the men’s section, pursued by many eyes peering at them through the grated windows, and entered the office, where two armed soldiers were waiting to escort her. A clerk sitting in the office handed one of the soldiers a document reeking of tobacco, and pointing to the prisoner said, ‘Take her.’

The soldier, a peasant from Nizhni Novgorod with a red pock-marked face, stuck the document into the cuff of his greatcoat and with a glance towards the prisoner winked slyly at his companion, a broad-cheeked Chuvash. The soldiers, with the prisoner between them, descended the stairs and walked over to the main exit. Here a small gate was opened for them, and passing through it they proceeded to the other side of the town, keeping to the middle of the cobbled streets.

Cabbies, tradespeople, cooks, labourers, clerks in government service stopped and looked with curiosity at the prisoner; some shook their heads and thought to themselves: ‘This is what evil conduct – conduct not like ours – leads to.’ Children stared terror-stricken at the criminal, until they saw that she was guarded by soldiers and could not do any more harm. A peasant from the country, who had sold his charcoal and been drinking tea in the tavern, went up to her, crossed himself and gave her a kopeck. The prisoner blushed, bowed her head and murmured something. Aware of the looks directed towards her, without turning her head she glanced out of the corner of her eye at those who were gazing at her, and enjoyed the attention she was attracting. She was cheered, too, by the spring air, so pure in comparison with that in the gaol, but she had become unused to walking, and the cobblestones and her clumsy prison shoes hurt her feet; and so she looked down at them and tried to step as lightly as possible. Passing a corn-chandler’s, her foot almost touched one of the pigeons strutting about unmolested in front of the shop. The blue-grey bird fluttered up and flew past her ear, fanning her with its wings. The prisoner smiled, then heaved a deep sigh as she recalled her present circumstances.